


Stripes Laid Across His Back

by CapGirlCanuck



Series: Baker Street Boys One-shots [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Blogging, Breakfast, Doctor John Watson, Episode: s03e01 The Empty Hearse, Feels, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gen, Hurt Sherlock Holmes, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Minor Mary Morstan/John Watson, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Some Canon-Typical Langauge, Telling the truth, They REALLY missed each other, Welcome Home
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-23
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:54:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26621728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CapGirlCanuck/pseuds/CapGirlCanuck
Summary: "I wanted you not to be dead.""Yeah, well, be careful what you wish for."John sees Sherlock's injuries from Serbia, and some emotions and conversation follow.(Missing scene from TEH.)(Now with John's blog post.)
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Series: Baker Street Boys One-shots [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1936546
Comments: 26
Kudos: 76





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by something I saw on Pintrest (which of course vanished immediately afterwards), which spurred me to write something similar, but in a way that I felt was in-character. Despite many crises of confidence along the way, I am finally happy with it, and hope you will like it too.  
> It's supposed to be set right before the last scene between Sherlock and John in The Empty Hearse, the morning after the bomb. I think it fits in canon, because although they never _say_ that John found out about Sherlock's injuries or the real reason Sherlock jumped off the roof at Bart's, they never say he _didn't_. And this was my first time writing in Sherlock's head (a rather bewildering place, I must say), so please be kind.

A hot shower was still something to be savoured. For two years they’d been few and far between, and he’d only been back in Baker Street for a week after all.

Finally, Sherlock turned the water off and shook out his hair, before stepping onto the bathmat and wrapping a towel around his waist. He shivered slightly as he left the steamy bathroom for his bedroom; it was November after all, he needed to turn the heat up.

As he opened his wardrobe, he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror, and hesitated, before slowly turning part way around, keeping his eye on the glass over his shoulder.

Mottled brown, yellow and green bruising liberally distributed across his torso. Cuts still red and painful looking, stitches all in place, good chance of some scarring.

He stepped away from the mirror, and went to find some trousers.

Oh, it wasn’t that Sherlock disliked the idea of scars, really, it was just the detestably long time it took the wounds themselves to heal. At least they hadn’t reopened during any of the exciting moments from the last several days; although he had experience getting blood out of shirts.

He hated putting on a shirt damp, but he couldn’t very well rub a towel across his back right now, so he pulled on a pair of pajama bottoms, and wandered out into the kitchen.

Mrs. Hudson’s tea was still hot, thankfully.

Sherlock had just settled at the desk with a hot cuppa, John’s blog pulled up on his laptop, when he heard the front door opening. _John._

There were several possible reasons for John to be here, including a new case, visiting Mrs. H, or the announcement he was moving back to Baker Street. But he was John Watson, and the most likely reason would be ‘just checking up’ on Sherlock.

Sherlock tried to look irritated as he glanced over to the door. “I thought you’d moved out.”

John stopped in the entrance, gave Sherlock an exasperated frown. “I’m going to pretend you just said ‘good morning’.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, but he couldn’t stop a smile as he looked back at an open file for the murder of Alesha Gregory, 23, died of asphyxiation, no marks on the body, no suspects… _Slow, Scotland Yard, so slow._ Lestrade had emailed him almost a dozen cold cases from the last two years.

He tamped down the warmth in his chest as John dumped an aluminium-foil wrapped dish (eggs and sausage by the smell, sent by Mary of course) on the kitchen table and came back, shrugging out of his coat.

“Mary sent me over with some hot breakfast. Said you might have forgotten how to cook, after being dead. I said you never knew how in the first place.” John was smiling as he hung up his coat and scarf on the landing. “She’s working this morning, but she told me to stay and make sure you actually ate some of it.”

“She can’t know you that well, if she just told you to do something you’d do anyway.” Sherlock flicked through the evidence photos, taking in the millimetre of polish at the top of each of the woman’s nails, even as he recognized that he was happier to be snarking with John, than he was about cold cases.

John gave a little laugh, as he came to look over Sherlock’s shoulder, before Sherlock heard him freeze, then swear softly.

A quick glance was all Sherlock needed to know what had startled his friend; John was staring at his back and side. Sherlock’s _bare_ back.

Sherlock hastily returned his gaze to the laptop screen, but his concentration was completely broken as John cursed several more times, voice getting louder with each epithet. For a brief second it almost sounded like shouting in Serbian, and he blinked to keep from flinching. “Yes, you can stop now,” he said stiffly, cutting across John. “You’ve made your feelings quite clear.”

Why did he have to be shirtless when John came in? Of course, _he_ didn’t know about what had happened in the last stage before Mycroft had shown up, and he was John, so of course he would react to seeing—what was to him, at least—Sherlock hurt. The wounds weren’t even that painful anymore, why did John have to _fuss?_

John took a long deep breath, like he always did when trying to take control of his emotions. _Oh, please, John. I’m not worth getting emotional over._ “Bloody hell, Sherlock,” he finally said again, shaking his head, before he exhaled hard, and dropped into a crouch next to Sherlock’s chair.

The cool palm pressing against his left shoulder blade caught Sherlock off guard, and he turned his flinching away into rising abruptly from his chair. Perhaps if he got dressed, John would go ahead with divvying up breakfast and forget about this. Unfortunately, he found his way blocked by John still crouching on the carpet.

Their eyes met, and Sherlock could identify shock, pain, horror, and anger in John’s face. It was the anger that made Sherlock the most uneasy, as John slowly stood.

“If you’re going to hit me again, please get it over with quickly.” The next moment he regretted his words, because John looked as if Sherlock had slapped _him._

For a moment John turned his head away, and Sherlock stood still, silently hating himself, because now he’d hurt John _again_. It was so _hard_ to care about people, so complicated.

 _I’m sorry._ The words were on the tip of his tongue when John looked back, and Sherlock saw the hurt slip back behind the anger, but anger that did not seem to be directed at him.

“Guess I deserved that,” John said quietly. Were those _tears_ in his eyes? “But Sherlock…” He shook his head again. “What the _hell-?_ ” He was getting worked up again, speaking slowly and deliberately, his hands clenching into fists before he deliberately flattened his palms against his thighs. “Who hurt you? Who did that?”

“Oh, you wouldn’t know him.” Sherlock, made a move slightly to John’s left, but John shifted with him.

“Who, Sherlock?” The look on his face…

“I’m sorry, John, I’m pretty sure there’s no one left to murder at this point.”

John gave a harsh huff, and passed a hand over his face, muttering under his breath. Then: “Alright, let me see them.” There was a long moment while they stared at each other, neither budging. John had that face of _I am not taking an ounce of your bull, Sherlock._ “Those cuts. On your back.”

“They’ve already been seen to, John. You don’t need to fuss.” Short of vaulting the desk or his chair, or jumping out of the window, Sherlock was effectively cornered.

“Turn. Around.”

No, he did _not_ want John staring at those slashes, the tears across his back, now sewn together. They were… not embarrassing, but… John shouldn’t have to see them.

“Please, Sherlock.”

And he knew he would turn around.

“I am a doctor, you know.”

“And a bloody awful one, if you order all your patients about like that.” Sherlock rolled his eyes as he turned, simultaneously hating how vulnerable it made him feel, and recognizing that he would do this for no one but John.

There was a long moment of silence, before John breathed a single word, so softly Sherlock could tell he didn’t know he’d spoken: “Sherlock…”

Cool fingers pressed against the scabbed over cuts, and stitched together flesh—not hard enough to hurt. Sherlock held himself stiffly to keep from shivering, trying not to think about whips and clubs and coldly stupid voices that he thought he’d deleted.

_Alesha Gregory. A father and sister, sister four years older, attends same university..._

“Well, they’re healing, at any rate.” John’s tone was forcibly light.

“I told you, Mycroft’s people saw to them.”

A noise from John, that noise he made when there was something he didn’t like, but couldn’t change it. “Where on God’s green earth did you get these, Sherlock? There was nothing that happened since you–”

_–since you came back from the dead. Meaning this must have happened right before. Meaning…_

Sherlock could hear John’s _Oh…_

“Sherlock,” he started carefully. “What were you doing?

“Please, turn around so I can stop talking to your back.”

Sherlock could not define the expression he saw on John’s face, but he could tell questions were forthcoming, and he shifted slightly, prepared to bolt, if John would just get out of his way.

“What were you doing?”

“Taking a shower.”

“No, Sherlock.” John put his hands on his hips, leaning sideways to keep eye contact. “You know exactly what I mean.”

“I’ve told you, John, I was taking apart Moriarty’s network–”

“And they thought they had to do _that_ to get you to stop?” Sherlock _thought_ he saw both pain and pride in John’s eyes.

A sharp _“Who are you?!”_ in German, echoed in Sherlock’s mind, and he almost smiled, grimly. “Yes, on second thought, a bullet through the brain would have been a lot smarter.”

John closed his eyes briefly, then let out a long breath, his stance relaxing, and Sherlock seized his chance. “Would you mind very much if I went and dressed?” He meant to be sarcastic, but something told him to be gentler with John, so his tone came out somewhere in between.

John spared him a fleeting glance, before he turned away. “Yeah, sure, go right ahead.” He sounded... odd.

For a moment Sherlock hesitated, watching John’s back as he walked stiffly into the kitchen, knowing the other man wasn’t really thinking about where he was going or what he would do once he got there. There were questions, things he wanted to ask Sherlock. But did Sherlock want to answer them?

Well, the least he could do would be to put on some good clothes, and try to make things seem a little more… normal.

Ha! When had Sherlock Holmes ever wished for normal?

£££££

Seeing Sherlock without a shirt wasn’t what threw John; it was what the lack of a shirt had revealed.

Several deep red wounds gouged across his back, wrapping around his left side. And bruises all over his shoulders and torso. Dear God, Sherlock looked like he’d been in something more like a gladiator fight than… Than what? What did ‘dismantling Moriarty’s organization’ even look like? Had John even stopped to think of what Sherlock might have gone through, the kind of lowlifes he might have faced off with in the span of two years?

There were scars too, older marks, at least a year.

Sherlock had _suffered_ in the time he was gone, most of all very recently; those cuts that looked like whip marks, and knife slashes must have happened only a few days before he’d come back…

A fresh wave of horror washed over John, something like tears balling in his throat, pressing at the backs of his eyes.

And he’d _tackled_ Sherlock twice, _and_ headbutted him in the face, and… He’d known Sherlock’s pain threshold was high, but to never let on for nearly a week that he’d just returned from getting beaten up…

The click of Sherlock’s door closing broke through John’s thoughts, and he roused himself, glanced around the kitchen. What was he supposed to be doing? Breakfast… Sherlock would probably take his time, trying to avoid John; he should probably keep the dish warm in the oven.

Quietly, John heated some more water for his own cup of tea, purposefully grabbing chamomile, because at the moment his own nerves needed settling.

He sat in his chair, warming his hands and sipping his tea, and thinking about almost too many things. Mary, and the wedding conversation over breakfast. Lord Moran, and Sherlock, and the bomb. The bomb, and Sherlock. Sherlock’s wounds.

They were all in various stages of healing, and there was no swelling or signs of infection, though the nastiest gouge _(Deep, flesh torn out of Sherlock’s back…)_ was weeping a bit. Clear fluid, thankfully, which was normal. And then of course, there were the extensive bruises in all colours. _(Fists slamming into Sherlock’s stomach.)_ _Oh, God_.

He was startled when Sherlock appeared in his field of vision, now wearing his usual dress shirt and trousers, dressing gown over top. John looked over at him, taking his seat once more at the desk, somehow knowing Sherlock had just glanced away.

“Wait, have you eaten breakfast?”

“Yes.” Sherlock did not look away from the computer screen.

“Yesterday doesn’t count,” John said flatly.

A tiny huff from Sherlock, and a minute relaxing of his shoulders; all this time and John could still read him. “Right.” He pushed himself to his feet, and went to grab the plate of food from the warming oven. “Here.” Returning to the sitting room, he whisked the laptop out from under Sherlock’s hands, and replaced it with the food, dropping a fork and knife beside it. “Now eat. I have a blog to write. Now that I finally have something to blog about.”

Sherlock sat quite still for a minute staring down at the slightly steaming food, and then without a word, picked up the silverware and started in. John bowed his head with a little smile, feeling the tension in the air ease off.

Using Sherlock’s laptop was only fair, after all the times Sherlock had borrowed John’s, so he logged in to the blog, typed a title without thinking: ‘The Return of Sherlock Holmes’, and then sat staring at a blinking cursor.

That was guilt gnawing at him. Sure, there was still a good bit of anger at Sherlock over keeping the whole blasted business a secret, and letting John believe he was dead, and then coming back like that in the restaurant with that stupid drawn-on mustache. But now he was here, sitting in his armchair at 221B Baker Street, about to blog about a case he and Sherlock had solved, making Sherlock eat breakfast…

A sweet ache filled John’s chest, as it hit him: everything he’d wished for had come true. Sherlock wasn’t dead, he was right here in Baker Street, very much alive. And there was the amazing addition of Mary, who made John laugh, and could keep up with Sherlock, and who just _got it._

And when you boiled it down, wasn’t that what mattered?

Sherlock was eating slowly, and if it had been anyone else John would have thought he was savouring the mouthfuls (What had he eaten in those two years? He’d clearly lost several pounds.), but he was probably just thinking about the case file he’d had open.

For a moment John hesitated. He usually avoided interrupting Sherlock’s thinking with anything unrelated, and he knew Sherlock would not be keen on returning to the subject of his injuries. It was always easier to shut up and act normal… But what even was normal any more?

What the hell, John’s sense of honour wouldn’t let him rest until he said it. “Sherlock?”

The slightest tilt of a dark, curly head.

“I’m sorry. For reacting the way I did. For hurting you.” Sherlock had gone quite still, but that had him sparing a quick glance at John. “You were right. You did apologize. And…” John trailed off, losing the thread of where he was going, and let out a sigh. “I’m sorry.”

Sherlock turned his head, though his eyes flicked from the wall to John and back again. “That’s… alright.”

It was awkward, but genuine; Sherlock’s way of saying, _“I forgive you.”_ And it was just so… _Sherlock._ Right here, eating because John was making him, and trying to extricate himself from an emotional conversation. _Sherlock._

The storm was already well on its way out; four, five days and John was already slipping back into the comfort of this, of Sherlock and cases and his old armchair. But another swell came then, and it broke out of John, much easier than Before, after so many months of conversing with Sherlock in his head.

“Do you have any idea how much I missed you? Do you have any idea how many times I thought of… following you? And if I had, if I’d ended it–”

A sharp noise cut him off, the screech of metal on china, and Sherlock laid his fork and knife down ever so carefully. He spoke slowly, haltingly, pain and uncertainty in his gaze as he glanced at and away from John repeatedly. “I had people watching you, John.”

Then quicker: “I even looked in on you more than once myself. I wanted to contact you, wanted to let you know. It was never supposed to take that long, maybe a year at most. But there were always more of them, more threads in the web, more threats to extinguish. Of course, they never expected a dead man to be cutting the strings, tearing them apart. But they needed to _keep_ believing I was dead. And you were the most convincing proof of that.”

“But _why?!”_ John finally burst out. _“Why_ did you have to die _there, then?_ Like _that?_ There were a thousand ways you could have faked your death. Why the _bloody hell_ did it have to be jumping from a damned roof, and making me watch?” The last words came out in a whisper, and he shut his eyes for a moment. “And don’t lie to me. Please. Not now.”

“Because if I didn’t die, you would have!”

John’s head snapped back up, seeing instant regret on Sherlock’s face, reading the curses he was mentally raining down on himself for something only emotion had wrenched out of him, and the detective could not now take back.

“What do you mean?”

Sherlock was half-standing, but slowly he sat again, not looking at John. He spoke fast, clipped, the way he did when delivering deductions. “You, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, all with guns to your heads. Moriarty’s men. It was the only way to call them off.”

John was vaguely aware that his mouth was open, before he blinked, sucked in a breath. “You had to die. In front of everyone.” He laughed, or it might have been a laugh, before he swore softly. “Sherlock, you…” And then he had to bow his head and cover his eyes for a second.

Sherlock had done it to save him. Him, and Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. And that was probably another big reason to keep Sherlock’s being alive a secret, so no one in Moriarty’s network would have a reason to come back after them. He hadn’t done it to be cruel, he hadn’t done it because he wanted to die, or because John wasn’t enough. He had done it to save John. Because he _cared_ about John, _cared_ about Mrs. H, _cared_ about Greg… By extension that meant… that meant he’d spent the last _two years_ keeping them safe. Fighting for them.

“John,” Sherlock’s voice was soft. “I am truly sorry.” He took a breath, like he meant to say more, but wasn’t sure just what.

“Shut up, Sherlock.” John knew he was smiling, somewhere between about to cry and about to laugh. “I- I know. What I said, last night—I meant it. It’s alright.” And he knew that his echo of Sherlock’s earlier words, was enough, enough to settle the waters between them, once again.

Here in this moment, in Baker Street, sitting in his old chair, and smiling at Sherlock in a way he knew the younger man would quickly get uncomfortable with, there was only one thing more John wanted to say.

“Thanks. For making it back. For coming home.”

And there was the eye roll, Sherlock settling back, picking up his fork again, speaking with fond exasperation. “Where else would I go?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” John felt something melting out of his shoulders, out of his chest, warmth taking its place; like pulling on his favourite jumper on a cold morning. He returned his attention to the laptop screen, even as he made a mental note to make Sherlock let him check on those cuts and bruises again in the next few days. “The moon perhaps?”

“Ahh, boring,” Sherlock sighed. “No criminals there.”

John was laughing like he hadn't laughed in two years. 


	2. The Blog Post

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My muse insisted I write the thing John was starting, so here you go. :)
> 
> ALSO OF NOTE:  
> I am very keen on finding someone to Brit-pick any future Sherlock works of mine. I think I've done alright so far, but it would be awfully nice to have someone double-check and offer insight on a culture that isn't actually mine. If you're interested, or know anyone who might be, leave a comment below, or drop a line to capgirlcanuck@gmail.com. Cheers!

THE PERSONAL BLOG OF  
Dr. John H. Watson November 6

**The Return of Sherlock Holmes**

“Short version: Not dead.”

Those were the first words I heard from him, the tall, slim, black-haired ghost that took the place of the waiter who had been serving me moments before.

_“Not dead.”_

Sherlock, with a ridiculous drawn-on moustache and a bow-tie, suddenly looking nervous at having so rudely interrupted my dinner date, and talking as quickly as he is capable. Sherlock, standing before me in flesh and bone, teasing me as if not a day had passed. All I could comprehend then was that my friend was very, very much ‘not dead.’

Sherlock Holmes was alive.

And requesting my help on a case.

I think that was how I knew for sure it was him. Only Sherlock would return from an apparent suicide after two years of being dead, and start describing the clues he had about a terrorist attack on London, without so much as a ‘by your leave’.

I confess, I was more than a little miffed with my friend, at first, and it took a mysterious kidnapping that placed me in harm’s way, before I was drawn into the solving of the terrorist plot.

The intelligence Sherlock had been given seemed too general to be useful: “An underground network is planning a terrorist attack on London.” He was also told that someone had given their life to acquire this knowledge. But it gave no clues to the really important facts, such as _when, where,_ or _how._ Or so it seemed.

Other small, private cases had landed on Sherlock’s doorstep, almost as soon as #SherlockLives hit the internet. One was from a train enthusiast, who worked with the London Underground and had noticed something strange on some security footage.

It was strange enough to pique Sherlock’s interest: A man had entered the last compartment at Westminster Station, but when the train reached St. James’s Park for its next stop five minutes later, there was no one in the last car. The passenger had vanished. There were no indications it had stopped along the way, there were no side tunnels it could have run into, and no alarms had signalled that a carriage door had opened on the way.

The passenger also intrigued Sherlock. His face had shown up clearly on the security tape, and had been quickly identified as Lord Sebastian Moran, Peer of the Realm, and an influential member of Parliament. And a traitor.

Unrelated on the surface, it was the security footage that gave Sherlock the first key. On closer review, he saw that the number of cars at St. James were less one from when they left Westminster. It wasn’t just Moran who had vanished, it was the entire Tube compartment.

Somewhere in the Underground, that carriage had been detached, but where? Of course, it couldn’t vaporise.

I was processing all this information, when Sherlock, running down the list of strange events from the last couple days, hit on the answer.

“What’s the date, John?” he asked. “Today’s date?”

“The fifth of November,” I answered, and the significance dawned.

_Remember, remember_   
_The 5 th of November_   
_Gunpowder, treason, and plot_

That night there was to be a vote in Parliament on a new anti-terrorism bill, and what better time for a strike? What better time for the second coming of Guy Fawkes?

The nature of the terror hit was not yet apparent, but we knew finding the Tube carriage was essential. With the help of Mr. Shilcott, the train buff, we discovered the unfinished tube station at Sumatra Road. The sidings and platforms had all been built, even the staircases, but it had gotten tied up in legal, and never opened on the surface. Sherlock understood at once. Directly under the palace at Westminster, it was the perfect place to hide a lone carriage.

“Why, what’s down there?” I asked. “A bomb?”

The possible truth in my words hit me, and we were both headed out of 221B in a flash.

I wasn’t thinking about it in the moment—I was too busy helping Sherlock find and defuse a giant bomb in an underground tunnel—but I can see it was true nonetheless. I had missed this. Watching Sherlock think, his mind always far ahead, answering questions before they were asked, seeing things I couldn’t. Following him on the chase, flashlights in the dark, and danger in the air. And that extraordinary relief and accomplishment, when a problem is solved, a truth is revealed, and maybe even lives are saved.

Sherlock is energy, is electricity; he changes the very air around him. His return has led to a number of complicated emotions for me and his friends, while the criminal classes will once more have to be on their best behaviour.

For me though, sitting in Baker Street, the morning after Sherlock’s genius has once more saved England from terror and great tragedy, the thing I feel deepest is thankfulness.

Thankfulness to be alive, yes, but even more, grateful for the ones who are alive alongside me. Sherlock Holmes has returned from the dead. How he accomplished that, he has yet to explain, and I doubt anyone will ever get the whole story. But to me, that is secondary.

My friend is back, in one piece, back to make jokes about the solar system and conduct shocking experiments in the kitchen, and solve impossible (impossible to the ordinary mind) crimes. And I am grateful.

Welcome home, Sherlock Holmes.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Kudos and comments are always encouraging. Cheers!


End file.
